


A Dog's Life Ain't Fun

by fullofbloodandhoney



Category: The Beatles
Genre: 1967, Alcohol, Drugs, M/M, Magical Mystery Tour, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-17
Updated: 2011-02-17
Packaged: 2017-10-15 18:45:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullofbloodandhoney/pseuds/fullofbloodandhoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dog's life ain't fun. Especially if you have to put up with JohnandPaul late night conversations. And not only <em>that</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dog's Life Ain't Fun

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks and several golden stars to [](http://kahvi.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://kahvi.livejournal.com/)**kahvi**   for the beta-read ♥

“Look at that, Martha. Won’t they ever stop?”

Paul sighed and tried to focus his eyes on the little crowd of fans hanging around his front gate jumping up and down and waving their hands. They were insistent as hell. It looked like it was going to be yet another night with those freaks camped in front of the house.

Paul dropped down without a word, settling on the steps, fishing in his back pocket for smokes. He was wearing only a light shirt despite the cold weather and he would be shuddering if it weren’t for all the wine he’d drunk. The volume of screams kept increasing as the fans struggled to get his attention.

Martha lifted her head and growled quietly. She was used to all sorts of people coming to the house and she had never felt particularly territorial – well, not since every other visitor had their pockets full of the most delicious things such as biscuits and bread crust; but Paul had been acting weird for days, not wanting to see anyone anymore.

Today wasn’t any different. He was already pretty drunk and Martha knew he kept another wine bottle just behind the door. She also knew, that if something didn’t happen soon, he wasn’t going to end up well that night - just like the night before and the night before that as well.

She calmed down a little when she felt Paul’s comforting hand on her head, scratching her gently behind the ear.

“It’s pitiful and it’s putting me off,” mumbled Paul drunkenly and lit a cig, taking a deep drag to let out a thick cloud of curly smoke. “Why don’t they just go away?” he looked Martha in the eyes, shaking his head in disgust.

“Why don’t you just GO AWAY!?” he shouted, making the merry crowd fall silent for once. Paul chuckled, scrambled onto his slightly unstable feet and looked up to the starry sky, enjoying the quiet moment Martha knew would soon be gone.

“Paul! Paul! Play for us tonight, please, Paul!” a girl’s voice broke the blissful silence and after a while the others joined in her pleas, making Paul frown.

Martha gave her master a puzzled look. She tried to read his expression but all she could see was the cigarette smoke surrounding his face. Finally, Paul threw the almost finished cigarette away and opened the door, clicking his tongue at Martha who jumped to all four happy to get back into warming embrace of the house.

She immediately rushed to her bowl, sticking her whole head in and gulping thirstily, splashing little droplets of water all around.

“You’ve got the right idea there, Martha, my dear!” exclaimed Paul cheerfully and bent down to pick up his wine bottle, cradling it in his arms like a baby. “Let’s go have a party.”

Martha followed her master to the kitchen, hoping to get something to eat, but Paul only poured himself a glass, which he downed instantly just to pour another one, and plopped down into a chair. He exclaimed in surprise as he found out a tambourine from the last week’s session was sitting there already. He shrugged and put the instrument on his head, making it look like some sort of a crown.

“Look, Martha, I’m a king!”

“I think _queen_ is the word you're looking for there, Macca." A voice coming from the doorway made both Paul and Martha jump in unison.

John Lennon was casually leaning against the kitchen wall with a smoke between his lips, cackling at his friend, who was spilling red wine all over his new shirt.

“Fucking hell, Lennon! Ye scared the shit out of me!” Paul cried out, examining the ruined shirt with a frown.

“Nice to see you too, luv,” John laughed at his friend and petted Martha’s head when she jumped up on her back feet, trying to greet him by licking his face. “Hello, Martha!”

Martha liked John. John always smelled good - that was the best thing about him. Like biscuits and chocolate and all sorts of good stuff. He was wearing that funny flowered outfit, loads of colourful beads around his neck, his granny glasses and a black hat with white feathers in it. He was smiling widely, clapping Martha on her side.

“Seriously, though, John,” exclaimed Paul from his seat, reaching for the bottle to pour himself a fresh glass, “how did you get in?”

John shoot him a glance. “You gave me a key, you nit.”

Paul raised his eyebrows and shook his head in confusion. “Dun’ remember that...”

“Doesn’t surprise me, Macca! You’ve been swimming in wine and scotch lately. Few more days and your reputation is as good as mine. Anyroad, what is it with those crazes freezing their bollocks out there? They almost ate me alive when they found out who I was! I thought I was going to spend the rest of the night singing Yesterday handcuffed to your gate - naked!”

Paul snickered at that. “Well, they don’t see much of you in London lately, do they, so they’ve got to enjoy you while you’re here. Can’t exactly blame them,” he mumbled, sipping on his wine with a slight smile dancing on his lips.

“You're drunk, Paul,” observed John, taking a drag from his smoke.

“Ahh nah, not drunk, just a bit tipsy, Johnny-boy.“ Paul reached for his glass again, almost knocking it over accidentally before finally getting a grip on it and bringing it to his mouth.  
“Right. Tipsy.” John snorted, his eyes lingering on Paul’s reddened lips. “So this is like – what, your third bottle?”

“Why are you asking me all these questions, John?” Paul groaned edgily. “I haven’t seen you for _ages_ and all of the sudden you waltz in here preachin’ some bollocks about drinking while all _you_ apparently do lately is sit at home snorting some shit. Talk about pot calling the kettle black, man!”

John hid his amused chuckle by turning away and stubbing his cigarette in the ashtray on the kitchen counter before plonking himself down next to Paul and snatching the wine away from him.

“C’mon, Paulie, don’t be a tosser. I had to come and see you. You’ve seemed a bit down for the past few days.” John took a sip, nodding approvingly. “That’s a good stuff you’ve got here, by the way.”

“Well, you saw me, so you can bloody well piss off now. Just leave me be, yeah? ” Paul spat out, leaving his glass to John and grabbing the entire bottle instead possessively.

Martha kept looking from Paul to John, all confused as she sensed the unspoken issue hanging in the air between the two boys. Eventually she crawled under the table, purposely sprawling across the floor, keeping both Paul’s and John’s feet warm, since that was all she could think of to help them. People were so awkward sometimes.

“I can’t just let you get drunk out of your trousers all alone, son. That’s not what a best friend would do.” John’s hand disappeared under the table to absently scratch Martha’s head as he took another sip of Paul’s wine.

Paul raised his eyebrows, snorting again. “Alone, eh? Again, pot calling the cattle black, mate. Besides, I’m not alone, Martha’s here too. They say that _dog’_ s a man’s _real_ best friend, you know.” Martha felt a second hand joining in the petting as Paul reached down as well, tangling his fingers in her long hair.

“Well, Martha won’t bloody well rub your back while you’re puking all over the toilet, will she.”

“She might,” Paul snapped back stubbornly, refusing to look John in the eyes.

“Bollocks, Paul. I know how you feel. You just want to be all lonely and pitiful.”

Martha felt Paul’s feet shift nervously under her body.

“So? Why do you care? Isn’t that what you’re doing every day, anyroad?”

John smiled at that, not allowing himself to snap, slowly lighting a new smoke and handing it to Paul.

“Paulie, please, don’t be mad,” he cried softly in a sing-song voice, forcing the younger man to finally lock eyes with him.

Paul gazed at him intently before he sighed and finally accepted the smoke, taking a deep puff.

“Get screwed, Lennon,” he added for good measure when he was relaxed in his chair, watching the clouds of smoke hanging in the air. He was smiling, though, and Martha could feel the atmosphere changing even from her position under the table. She let out a long sigh and rested her head back on the floor, all satisfied with herself.

John lit one for himself as well and for a while they remained silent, puffing on their cigarettes.

“So, is Jane keen on playing the housewife when she's around?” John finally broke the silence, changing the tack wisely.

Paul laughed. “Yeah, mate! Imagine that! She messed with me records and ordered them alphabetically. I can't find a thing now!”

“Well, don't trust a redhead, Paul.” John took his hat off, messing up his auburn hair with his free hand making it stick up all angles. “What's wrong with the alphabet anyway?”

“Oh, everything! I had it ordered by the patented McCartney system, thank ye very much!” Paul raised the bottle and took a generous sip, his lips getting even redder, if that was physically possible.

John unconsciously licked his own lips. “And what might _that_ be I wonder?“

“First by the opening chord then by the quality of bass lines and, _of course_ , by key,” Paul said, as if that was perfectly normal, beaming at his obvious genius (making John roll his eyes). “It'll take me ages to put it right again!” he added, frowning slightly, waving his hands about dangerously and nearly spilling the wine again.

“It will certainly keep you busy on rainy days,” laughed John. “Now come on, let's get you to bed.” He tried to stand up, but Martha’s heavy body was still lying on his feet, so he fell back down, cursing under his breath.

“You're not really beating around the bush, are you!” Paul exclaimed cheerfully. “ You’ve not been here for twenty minutes and you want to take me to bed already?! Honestly, you Beatle boys are all the same!” he giggled, downing the rest of the bottle and making John’s eyes widen in horror over it.

“I meant actually get some sleep, Macca,” he corrected Paul sheepishly. “You’ve drunk yourself silly, mate, you should sleep it off.”

“Well I don't wanna!” Paul shook his head and pointed under the table. “I promised Martha I would take her for a walk.”

At those words Martha’s head snapped up and her whole body followed next as she jumped up on her paws, nearly knocking over the table in the process.

Paul laughed again and jumped out of his chair, clapping his hands, making Martha bark and waggle her tail. John shook his head and turned back to his almost empty glass, finishing it resolutely.

“Ah, this is just perfect. I come here wishing to get high or at least drunk with me mate and it looks like I'll be taking care of princess McDrunkney here instead,” he mumbled to himself not noticing Paul was sitting down again, looking slightly green in the face.

“Well, it's my house, what did you expect?” Paul took a deep breath, fingers pressing at the sides of his skull. “I shouldn’t have stood up,” he added meekly, closing his eyes shut.

John did not seem about to take pity on his younger friend, as he snorted and sang:  
“You're gonna be verrrrry sick tomorrow, Paulie-boy!”

“Well, double-track it and stuck it up your arse,” growled Paul and continued massaging his temples. “But seriously... can you die of a hangover?” he asked, opening his eyes and blinking into the light.

“Dunno,” shrugged John. “You might be the first case - just wait till the morning.”

“Blimey, I think you're right. Can't we skip the whole tomorrow, then?”

John smirked. “We could, yeah, but we've done that so many times we're still in 1963, son.”

“True that,” laughed Paul, resting his chin on the table.

Several minutes later was Paul happily sipping on a glass of water John had fixed him, washing down the worst fit of nausea, his feet resting on Martha’s warm back. John was sitting across the table, his brown eyes glued to Paul as he was trying to figure out what was wrong with his friend.

Not even Martha was entirely sure she knew. She didn’t understand the world of humans that seemed to only consist of music, booze, sex and colourful dresses. But she was coming to realize something was bothering her master every night she woke up and sensed his presence upstairs, smoking one cigarette after another and crossing the room back and forth for several hours before falling back into restless sleep.

“So, Macca,” John said after a while, urging his friend to look up. “Are you gonna tell me what’s up with you?” He reached across the table to touch Paul’s hand, but the boy yanked it away immediately and stuck the thumbnail back between his teeth. He remained silent for few seconds while John waited patiently, examining the lines on his palm.

“Well,” Paul said at last, his voice coming out all husky, “I’m scared as hell, obviously. Apple’s been doin’ all right so far, but the band... with Brian dead... is all going completely... you know,” he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. His hands were shaking. He licked his lips and cleared his throat but didn’t say anything else.

John took a deep breath. “You mean the bubble’s bursting?” He couldn’t help himself but snicker at his own words.

“Don't laugh, Lennon! 'S not funny, you know. What if it's actually true?” Paul’s eyes were so huge all of the sudden. He looked like a little child who was about to lose their favourite toy.

“What. That we're on our way to Crapville?” John scratched his head absently, finishing his smoke in the process.

“Yeah!”

“Are you serious?” John stood up to stretch his legs, digging into Paul’s fridge for something to eat.

Paul followed him with a wild look, frowning. “Yeah, I am! We blew it! They hated the Magical Mystery Tour, they absolutely hated it!” he spat out, crossing his arms over his chest.

John closed the fridge with his knee, taking a bite of an apple he’d found there. “They didn't hate it, luv. They just didn't get it. I didn't get it too sometimes, to be honest. But I _did_ look fabulous in pink. It took me by surprise, ‘cos that's usually your colour,” he grinned, reaching forward to ruffle Paul’s dark hair.

“Piss off,” Paul laughed despite himself, brushing the hand away.

“Well, but fuck them all anyway, Paulie!” exclaimed John again, as he picked a seat next to his friend and sprawled all over it with one his foot practically on top of Paul’s crossed legs.  
“I thought you were supposed to be the positive thinking one!” he added, taking another noisy bite of his ‘2 AM snack’.

“Shurrup! I ain't the cute and positive Beatle anymore. I think I'll even grow a beard,” claimed Paul with a look in his eyes so serious John almost choked on the apple .

“And what will you get called then? The bushy Beatle? Seriously, though, have you ever seen a ten year old with a beard, Macca?” John’s eyebrows disappeared in his fringe. ”That's how you’ll look. So don't be daft, yeah?”

“Deal with it, Johnny,” laughed Paul, “I'm growing a long beard like the Maharishi. It will be so long five men will have to carry it while I'm walkin’.” He laughed at his own joke, shifting in his seat, practically crawling onto John’s lap. John was too shocked to do anything when Paul pressed his nose to his cheek, inhaling deeply.

“Oh come on, you do like me stubble, don't you. I know you do,” Paul mumbled against John’s skin, tangling his fingers in John’s messy auburn hair, breathing in the sweet apple scent.

“Oh, for fuck's... Macca, you're still drunk,” John’s breath hitched. “You don't know what you're doing, do yeh. This is not how it's supposed to be. I should be the drunk one here.” He tried to shake his friend off, but Paul was apparently glued to him.

“Oh I do know what I'm doing, Johnny... I'm rubbin’ me stubble against yer pretty clean shaved cheek, I do. Just like you did once. Remember? ‘Cos I do,” Paul whispered the last three words with his soft lips brushing against John’s temple.

John stiffened, not knowing what to do with his hands anymore, since he was out of smokes and apples and he had Paul McCartney all over himself. He finally settled them at his friend’s back, feeling awkward about it all the same.

“I don't want to talk about that,” he said finally. It was his turn now to avoid Paul’s intense stare and he did his best, gazing at the wall behind Paul’s head stubbornly.

“I wanna,” demanded the younger man.

“You're still drunk, Paul,” John repeated for what seemed like the millionth time that night.

“Yeah. Exactly. Good opportunity to talk about it. I wouldn't have the balls if I were sober, you know that. Usually it’s you who wants to discuss it, when you get high or really depressed. Now it’s me and I want to get on with it!”

“Listen, Paul, I don't want to-“

“Come off it, John! We're supposed to be best mates, yeah? We should talk! We never talk anymore, we just don't. Why?” Paul was looking at John as if it was his fault. He was blaming _him_ , obviously.

John gazed back at him coldly. “I don't particularly feel like sharing. Sorry, Macca.”

“Is it something I've done? ‘Cos I can undo it. Or if it's something I haven't done, I'll do it! The band is breaking apart in my hands and I dunno what to do anymore. Dunno how to fix it. There are some things between me and you that need to be straighten up, apparently!”

“All right,” John finally gave in, his voice getting even more colder as he braced himself against what was to come. Their faces were just few inches from each other, yet none of them did anything to move back.

“We're supposed to be mates, as you said. Yet...” John paused awkwardly, letting his last word hang in the air, and cleared his throat, “...we've done so much more... _in Paris_ , I mean.”

At the word Paris Paul flinched and attempted to get out of John’s lap, suddenly backing out. However, it was John now, who seemed to had gotten glued to his friend suddenly.

“We were kids, John,” Paul managed weakly. “Randy and inexperienced - and curious. We were drunk and naked - in a bed together. _In Paris_ in a bed together,” he corrected himself. “I would've shagged anyone then.”

“Oh no you wouldn't have, Macca,” John’s grip around Paul’s body tightened. “I remember it pretty well, you know. Your teeth on my neck and those 'I'm gonna claim you , Johnny', you kept growling into my skin over and over again.”

A silence followed during which the only thing Martha could hear were their quickened breaths and the precise ticking of the kitchen clock.

“...I don't seem to recall claiming you, though,” Paul finally said quietly, not even struggling to get out of John’s embrace anymore. He didn’t move at all; just kept staring into John’s eyes, facing their unspoken issue at last.

“That's right.” A slight smile appeared on John’s face as he let himself travel back to Paris in his memory. “It was _me_ who claimed _you_ that first night. I was drunk, but I remember it vividly. The look in your eyes when you finally stopped trying to get on top and gave in. The white blur of your pale hands gripping at the sheets. Those brilliant little sounds you made.”

“Shut up, John. I can't...“ Paul trailed off. He was evidently shivering all over, trying hard to keep his eyes open while John’s voice resonated so close to him.

John eyed Paul curiously and licked his lips before speaking again.

“We were rolling about, almost falling off the small bed, constantly kicking and elbowing each other. It was so messy and awkward and so overwhelming.”

“John, shut up, _please_.” Paul’s voice was hoarse and the boy was probably running a fever judging by the deepness of the blush on his cheeks. John ignored him, getting on with his small speech, hoping his own voice wouldn’t betray him.

“It was mind-blowing to battle someone like that in bed. And thrilling.” He smiled again at the memory, shifting in his chair so he could show Paul just _how_ thrilled he already was _right now_.

  
Paul let out a shaky breath, but didn’t say anything this time. His expression was blank. John didn’t let that put him off and continued.

“I didn't particularly care about being on top or whatever, you know. I just enjoyed the fights. And you were so wild and demanding those times you won. As if you were paying me back for all the other nights.”

“I said stop it,” Paul gritted through his teeth, finding new strength within himself to try and get away from his best friend. But John held him fast, wanting to get everything out of his chest till he could.

“Your lips. Those fantastic lips. On my chest, on my thighs. _Everywhere_. Driving me nuts...”

Paul sighed and it almost sounded like a moan. John smirked at that.

“We never talked in bed, but man, did we scream our throats off! I remember once, just before I came and all of my thoughts melted into one big fuzzy bunch of stuff, I listened to the two of us shouting and groaning and it reminded me of our music. It was just the same - crazy and loud and hard and _oh so good_.”

“ _John_...” Now that was definitely a moan. Paul’s eyes were shut and he was practically panting, clutching at John’s shirt.

“What, Paul?” John asked innocently. “You wanted to talk, so I'm talking. We came back home from Paris and it was as if nothing had ever happened. I‘ve been going mad all this time and you haven’t even batted an eye, so don’t talk to me about avoiding the problem!”

John was done with his story and it wasn’t really apparent where it was leaving them (aside from very turned on). Paul was still breathing heavily and John took the opportunity to slide one hand under his shirt, feeling the smooth skin there. Paul moaned again and snuggled closer to John, the chair creaking under their joint weight.

“Johnny...” Paul was finally able to talk, his voice thick with lust. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, yet he didn’t do anything to stop John from nuzzling his neck and drawing little circles with his fingers on Paul’s lower back.

Martha chose that particular moment to crawl out from under the table, stretching her legs and giving a loud yawn. She waggled her tail once or twice and looked at the two boys all tangled in each other. Paul was sitting on John’s lap - his eyes were glassy and his hair ruffled, while John was caressing his collarbone and making quiet sounds of delight.

She didn’t understand the situation, but she felt their need of closeness was as strong as if it was something essential. The view of her master and John was so fascinating she couldn’t take her eyes off of them, so she just kept on staring, not moving a muscle.

“You’re right,” said John, not stopping either himself, just cracking a little smile when meeting Martha’s intent gaze. “I’m not doing it in front of your dog.”  
He hissed with pain as Paul poked him in the ribs, giggling uncontrollably into his shoulder.

“Sod Martha,” Paul breathed in a reply and snuggled closer again, not wanting to leave one inch of their bodies unaffected by their cuddling. “But this is _still_ wrong, John. We can’t-“

“But we’ve got to, Paul!” John groaned, burying his fingers in Paul’s silky hair. “It’s been too long. Bloody _six years_ since Paris. I can’t do this anymore. You wanted to resolve our problem – come on, here it is, lying in front of you, waiting to be worked out!”

“So that’s how you call it nowadays? We Can Work It Out?” Paul giggled, pressing their foreheads together. “It _has_ been ages since Paris, though,” he conceded, wriggling a little on John’s lap, making their breaths hitch.

John let out a long sigh to regain back his control and raised his hand to caress Paul’s cheek, his eyes getting darker every second. They soon met Paul’s, lingering there, enjoying the overwhelming kaleidoscope-like experience. His body was getting itchy all over. He just had to draw Paul’s face closer and turn his needful eyes to those soft lips again.

Paul didn’t allow the kiss just yet, though. He waited till their lips were just a fraction of an inch away and stopped there, stroking the back of John’s neck softly.

“What shall we do about the band, John?” he spoke quietly, not wanting to let that one unresolved.

“I don’t know Paul,” John sighed just as quietly. “Just keep on makin’ more music I reckon. We’ve still got some more singles to record and there’s also the trip to India and then... who knows,” he shrugged.

“But you _should_ know,” Paul frowned slightly, rubbing his button-nose against John’s. “ _We_ should. We’re the bleedin’ world’s most favourite soul-mates, you know. The Nerk Twins. Lennon/McCartney. Finishing each other’s sentences, completing each other’s thoughts, the middle eight to each other’s verse...”

“So romantic, my little Paulie. Now shut up and kiss me already,” John demanded, finally pressing their lips together.

It was just as mind-blowing as they remembered it; stealing each other’s breaths, fighting for dominance, letting their hands blindly travel all over their bodies, not knowing whether they were touching themselves or each other anymore and not caring in the slightest.

They soon started panting again, unable to kiss any longer, just to _look_ and _touch_ , both needing more, needing each other as _close_ as possible. After a while John finally pushed Paul off his lap so he could stand up himself, groaning at the sensation of Paul’s knee brushing against his crotch in the process. Paul had to hold onto the table, trying to stay balanced on his wobbly legs, while John sneaked his hand into his trousers and squeezed his bum, making him hum approvingly.

“I’m not gonna last for shite,” mumbled John somewhat merrily before capturing Paul’s lips in a kiss again. “Gotta go upstairs, Macca. _Now_ ,” he urged, making it even harder for Paul to think straight and control his legs which seemed to had turned into a jelly.

They paused in the hallway, looking each other in the eyes lustfully.

“What about that walk I promised Martha?” Paul looked around to find his sheepdog standing under the staircase, waggling her tail.

John looked from his friend, who was all flushed and still breathing heavily, his hair messy and his lips deep _deep_ red, to Martha, who was looking at them with a great expectation in her barely existent hair covered eyes.

“What can I say. A dog's life ain't fun, Macca,” he sniggered, before dragging Paul upstairs and shutting the door behind them.

__  
  



End file.
